In a second she’d get on the scales to check properly, but she could swear she hadn’t lost any weight. For a week now she had been cutting down, watching every mouthful, suffering agonies whenever she passed a cake shop, yet with nothing to show for it. She tried to press her abdomen flat but it bulged between her spread fingers. She gripped the flesh of her thighs; there was too much of it, she knew.
Guy didn’t complain, of course. ‘A figure like a Renoir calendar,’ he’d tell her, his hand skating lightly over her breasts, arousing her.
No, what was wrong with their marriage was not that. It was her. She was bored; she’d had enough of it. Eleven years after all — Christ!
He irritated her much more than he used to. Little things. The way he carefully squeezed out the smallest quantity of toothpaste as though it were made of gold dust. His habit of picking his toes before he got into bed. The way he slurped his cornflakes in the morning. Things she hadn’t really noticed when they first married.
But she’d been in love then; already pregnant and crazily in love.
Going into the bathroom to turn off the taps, she tested the temperature of the water with her hand. It was, just about right, and those new bath salts smelled so inviting. The scales could wait, she thought.
Before stepping into the bath she glanced quickly back into the bedroom to check the time on her bedside clock; as she did so, she caught a quick glimpse of something reflected in the full-length mirror. Her whole body tingled and came out in goose pimples. She could swear it was a beetle, identical to those Tony had shown her in the Plough.
Hurriedly she looked around, not daring to move from the spot. Nothing near her feet; nothing visible at all. Naked but for the towel around her head, she felt totally vulnerable. Yet — had she really seen a beetle? That rapid flash of green and pink glimpsed from the comer of her eye as she was moving — had she merely imagined it?
Treading cautiously, she went back to where she thought she had been standing, keeping her eyes on the mirror. No sign of beetles or any other insea, but she noticed a face flannel had fallen down from the mottled green washbasin: was that what she had seen?
She bent down to pick it up, her eyes searching the floor. Then she investigated the pile of thick towels too, turning each one over to make quite sure.
Nothing.
Nor in the bedroom either, not that she could see.
‘Nerves!’ she decided aloud, scoffing at herself. ‘And if you don’t get into that bath now, Dorothea Cunningham, it’ll be too late to have one at all.’
She stepped into the water, though the sound of her own voice scarcely reassured her. Slipping down comfortably until she was lying full-length, she let the warmth take over and soothe her fears, cocooning her against all dangers.
It was only later — when she was wondering idly whether it was time to get out and fetch Kath — that she suddenly realised she had used her maiden name, Cunningham. That was something she hadn’t done for ages, she thought.
5
What bugged Guy most was not the scar tissue on his hands and face where the beetles had chewed into him. He already had one long scar, a memento from the Falk-lands; a few extra were no great tragedy, though Dorothea nagged him to try plastic surgery, which he refused to do. Why tempt fate?
What bugged him most was the fact that even after six weeks he couldn’t rid his mind of the vision of giant worms feeding on the dead tramp’s decomposing body. That’s what it was, of course: nothing but an apocalyptic vision far removed from reality.
At first he’d imagined he had actually seen such things during those last few seconds in the school before the ceiling collapsed; now he knew — or rationalised, at any rate — that it had been an hallucination, his mind playing tricks on him, part of his delirium as he teetered on the edge of death in hospital.
Yet in that case why did he still wake up in the morning convinced he had seen giant worms, after all? It made no sense.
‘You’re still suffering from the after-effects,’ Dorothea always dismissed his worries. ‘No one else saw anything of that kind, though they had plenty of opportunity. You’re the only one. And, Christ, aren’t beetles enough for you? I just wish you’d shut up about the whole business. It gives me the willies, you going on about beetles and maggots and things.’
Naturally she was right about no one else having seen them. In the grey light of daytime he could even accept that it must be some kind of nervous reaction. It was only when he got into bed again and dropped off into a half-sleep that the giant worms became real once more, as if deliberately taunting him.
During his first restless weeks of convalescence he had questioned everyone who had been anywhere near the school, including the police. The only person he did not succeed in contacting was a Miss Armstrong of the Public Health Department, who was away on sick leave.
Detective-Sergeant Evans answered all his questions patiently, assuring him that the only worms either he or the other police officers had seen had been maggots the length of a thumb nail. If Guy didn’t believe him he was more than welcome to speak to the ambulancemen, or the pathologist who had conducted the post mortem. Which he did, but their stories were identical.
From the detective-sergeant he also obtained the addresses of the two teenagers who had rescued him. He owed them at least a word of thanks. He tried the boy’s home first, a flat on the seventh floor of a high-rise block. One lift seemed to be functioning but three people were already waiting for it, middle-aged women who eyed his scarred face suspiciously, their flow of talk drying up the moment he joined them. He decided to walk up.
The man who opened the door was no less wary. He was still holding the West Indian World which he must have been reading, while from inside the flat came the sound of television. Guy apologised for disturbing him and asked to speak to Byron.
‘Who wants him?’
‘My name’s Guy Archer. I’d like to thank him.’
‘Oh?’ A look of enlightenment spread across his face but he was clearly not pleased. ‘Haven’t you brought him enough trouble, getting his name taken by the police?’
‘Are you his father?’
‘What if I am? OK, jus’ you wait there, man. I’ll ask if he wants to talk to you.’
Through the open door Guy caught glimpses of the nicely furnished flat, and from the kitchen came the smell of fresh baking. It made him feel like an intruder. His visit was so obviously unwelcome; the arguing voices he could hear were evidence enough, though the words were indistinct. Then an inner door opened and a girl came out. She was about sixteen or seventeen, he reckoned; a delicate beauty with a light milk-chocolate skin and dark, lively eyes.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Archer. Byron can’t talk to you right now. It’s not — convenient.’ She smiled at him in a shy, embarrassed manner. ‘I’m Sharon. We’re both glad you’re all right again.’
‘I didn’t mean to butt in, only to say thank you. And if there’s anything I can do to show my gratitude, I’d—’
‘Such as what?’ a voice challenged him from the far end of the passage.
‘You must be Byron,’ he said.
‘Must I?’
‘Byron, be polite!’ The girl was clearly shocked.
‘If you want to do something, tell the fuzz to lay off us. They’ve been round asking questions again. Stupid questions.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’
‘Didn’t you?’ he retorted bitterly. ‘Well, you know now.’
‘Byron’s mother hasn’t got over it,’ Sharon said. ‘In this block it usually means only one thing when the fuzz call. She’s very upset.’